Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.
Marquette
By James Handasayd Perkins (1810–1849)S
Ye waves that round me roll,
With all your golden, crimson dyes,
Sink deep into my soul!
And ye, soft-footed stars,—that come
So silently at even,
To make this world awhile your home,
And bring us nearer heaven,—
Speak to my spirit’s listening ear
With your calm tones of beauty,
And to my darkened mind make clear
My errors and my duty.
Across this stormy lake,
On deeds of mercy ever bent
For the poor Indian’s sake.
They looked to all of you, and each
Leant smiling from above,
And taught the Jesuit how to teach
The omnipotence of love.
You gave the apostolic tone
To Marquette’s guileless soul,
Whose life and labors shall be known
Long as these waters roll
To him the little Indian child,
Fearless and trustful came,
Curbed for a time his temper wild,
And hid his heart of flame.
With gentle voice, and gentle look,
Sweet evening star, like thine,
That heart the missionary took
From off the war-god’s shrine,
And laid it on the Holy Book,
Before the Man Divine.
The blood-stained demons saw with grief
Far from their magic ring,
Around their now converted chief,
The tribe come gathering.
Marquette’s belief was their belief,
And Jesus was their king.
Fierce passions’ late resistless drift
Drives now no longer by;
’T is rendered powerless by the gift
Of heaven-fed charity.
How, on yon distant shore,
The world-worn Jesuit bade farewell
To those that rowed him o’er;
Told them to sit and wait him there,
And break their daily food,
While he to his accustomed prayer
Retired within the wood;
And how they saw the day go round,
Wondering he came not yet,
Then sought him anxiously, and found,
Not the kind, calm Marquette,—
He silently had passed away,—
But on the greensward there,
Before the crucifix, his clay
Still kneeling, as in prayer.
Told by some artful knave,
The legend, that the lonely stream,
By which they dug his grave,
When wintry torrents from above
Swept with resistless force,
Knew and revered the man of love,
And changed its rapid course,
And left the low, sepulchral mound
Uninjured by its side,
And spared the consecrated ground
Where he had knelt and died.
Nor ever let my weak mind rail
At the poor Indian,
Who, when the fierce northwestern gale
Swept o’er Lake Michigan,
In the last hour of deepest dread
Knew of one resource yet,
And stilled the thunder overhead
By calling on Marquette!
Ye darkening waves that roll
Around me,—ye departing dyes,—
Sink to my inmost soul!
Teach to my heart of hearts that fact,
Unknown, though known so well,
That in each feeling, act, and thought
God works by miracle.
And ye, soft-footed stars, that come
So quietly at even,
Teach me to use this world, my home,
So as to make it heaven!